Just a couple of powerlifters grunting over by the squat rack, and a woman in pink headphones pounding out leg curls like she’s trying to erase the world one rep at a time.
I move to squats. The bar is cold on my neck. I go heavy, because fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen.
With every rep, my quads scream, but I force the set, telling myself this is what getting better feels like.
When I finish, my vision goes black at the edges for a second, the blood in my head ringing loud enough to drown out the gym’s shitty pop music.
I lean on the rack, breathing hard, and again, there’s that instinct to look for Ash, to see if he’s counting the seconds on my rest, or making the “nice ass” face he used to pull when he thought I wasn’t looking. Nothing.
I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out cracked.
I go to the cables, run through rows and pulldowns and whatever else will kill another hour.
The only time I talk to anyone is when I nearly drop a forty-pound dumbbell on my foot and a guy in a Seahawks hoodie says, “Careful, man,” with the deep, patient boredom of someone who’s watched a lot of people fuck up their lives in slow motion.
I do a last set of incline bench, pushing it, just to see if I can.
Halfway through, I get stuck, the bar dropping toward my chest with a suddenness that’s almost funny.
There’s that flash of panic, if I drop it, I’ll look like an idiot, if I yell, I’ll sound like a rookie, if I just hold it here maybe I can…
A hand reaches down, grabs the bar, and helps rack it. It’s the Seahawks guy again.
He doesn’t say anything this time, just nods and moves on, but I catch the flicker of “what the fuck” in his eyes.
I wipe down the bench, towel off, and pretend not to care that my hands are shaking.
It’s not the weight, or the effort. It’s the adrenaline dump after a near-miss, the realization that if I’d needed help, no one would have noticed for a solid thirty seconds.
I check my phone, more out of habit than hope. There’s a text from Ash, timestamped twenty minutes ago:
where’ve you been?
I read it three times, staring at the words until the screen goes dim.
The gym is suddenly too bright, too loud, every voice amplified, every sound bouncing off the walls and back into my skull.
I type a response, then delete it.
Type again, “Had to switch up routine. Too crowded at the other place.” But I don’t hit send. Instead, I shove the phone back in my pocket and head for the exit, ignoring the way my pulse tries to claw up my throat.
Outside, the air is cold and sharp. I get in the car, start the engine, and let it idle while I stare out at the donut shop and the dying light of the evening.
I think about the last time we ran together, the way Ash would always finish a workout by buying two glazed and pretending one was for a friend he never actually met.
I think about the text, about how easy it would be to answer, to pretend things could go back to normal, to pretend I’m not actively running away.
But I don’t answer. I just sit, engine running, while the world keeps moving and the gym lights go dark behind me.
I drive home with the radio off, the only sound my own breathing, slow and ragged, and the creak of my hands on the wheel.
At the first red light, I check the phone again. No new messages.
I drop it in the cupholder and watch the seconds tick by.
If this is what freedom tastes like, it’s bitter as hell.
———
